The toothbrush is pink and child-sized, bristles already flattened from previous punishment details.

Sarah presses it into my palm with a smile that could curdle fresh milk.

“The pack bathrooms need attention,” she announces, gesturing toward the hallway. “Every tile, every grout line, every corner behind the toilets.”

“Of course, Luna.” The words scrape past my dry throat automatically.

“And when you’re finished there, the garbage needs hauling to the burn pit.” Her eyes flick toward the windows, where rain lashes the glass in silver sheets. “Don’t bother with a coat, you’ll only get it dirty.”

I nod because arguing invites worse consequences than compliance ever does.

The bathroom floors destroy my knees within the first hour. Grout lines blur together as I scrub in endless circular motions, pink bristles turning gray with accumulated filth. My back screams in protest.

The garbage run soaks me to the bone, rain plastering my thin shirt against curves I cannot hide. Cold seeps into my muscles until my teeth chatter uncontrollably.

The training room waits for me after dinner, though I’m not permitted to eat any. Blood stains the wooden floors in rust-colored pools, dried remnants of sparring sessions gone too far.

My stomach cramps with hunger as I scrub, hollow and demanding.

Sarah appears in the doorway as I’m wringing pink water from my rag.

“You missed a spot near the weapons rack,” she observes, picking at her perfect nails.

“I’ll get it right away,” I manage, crawling toward the indicated area.

“You know, cousin, you might work faster if you weren’t carrying so much extra weight.” Her voice drips with false concern. “Skipping meals should help with that situation eventually.”

The words land exactly where she aims them, finding soft tissue beneath scarred armor.

“Maybe if you weren’t so fat,” she continues, advancing into the room, “you wouldn’t attract the wrong kind of attention from my husband.”

She knows. The realization churns through my exhausted mind. She suspects what Paul and I have done.

“I don’t know what you mean, Luna,” I whisper, scrubbing harder at the blood.

“Of course you don’t.” Sarah laughs, the sound bright and brittle. “Just remember what I said about your weight, cousin.”

She leaves me kneeling in someone else’s blood, her words burrowing under my skin like parasites.

My room offers no comfort when I finally drag myself there hours later. Every muscle screams, every joint aches, every inch of my body protests the abuse it’s endured.

The mirror catches my reflection as I pass, and I freeze in its honest glare.

Look at yourself. The thought surfaces unbidden. Look at what they see.

Soft stomach. Heavy thighs. Arms that jiggle when I move too quickly. The body my pack mocked for years, the flesh that takes up too much space in every room.

Why would either of them want this?

The werewolf ideal is lean muscle and predatory grace. Women like Sarah, slender and sharp and built for speed.

Not women like me, soft and slow and made for comfort that nobody wants.

Fat. The word echoes through my skull. Disgusting. Wrong.

My fist connects with the glass before I consciously decide to throw it.

Pain explodes through my knuckles as the mirror shatters into a hundred accusing shards. Blood wells immediately, crimson drops spattering the floor like accusations.

Stupid. I stare at my bleeding hand with hollow recognition. You’ll need that hand to work tomorrow.

The thought should upset me more than it does.

I’m still standing amid broken glass when the door opens behind me.

“Morgan, I’ve been looking everywhere for—” Paul’s voice cuts off sharply.

His eyes sweep the scene in one predatory assessment: shattered mirror, bleeding hand, my hunched shoulders.

His jaw tightens until the muscle jumps beneath stubbled skin.

“She suggested that skipping meals might help me stop attracting the wrong attention.” My voice drops to a whisper. “From you.”

“Morgan.” My name carries so much weight when he says it that way.

“I looked in the mirror and saw exactly what she described.” Tears blur my vision. “I saw the girl Silver Moon mocked my entire life, the body that’s nothing like what wolves are supposed to want.”

Paul finishes bandaging my hand, then rises to his full height. His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me against his chest with fierce possession.

“Whatever lies she’s putting in your head,” he murmurs against my hair, “know that I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

His hands stroke down my back, tracing the curves she taught me to hate.

“Every single curve,” he continues, palms settling on my hips with deliberate appreciation. “Every inch of softness drives me absolutely insane with wanting you, Morgan.”

“You don’t have to say these things to make me feel better.” The protest comes out weak.

“I’m saying them because they’re true.” He pulls back to meet my eyes. “My wolf would accept no other, little wolf.”

The words help, settling warm in my aching chest like medicine on a wound.

But they don’t erase what I saw in that mirror before I shattered it. They don’t undo years of being told my body is wrong, excessive, shameful.

Paul holds me until my trembling subsides, then kisses my forehead and makes me promise to sleep.

After he leaves, I lie awake staring at the ceiling, making plans.

Eat less. The resolution crystallizes with terrible clarity. Move more until you shrink yourself into perfection.

Or die trying.